


Field Assessment

by MedicBaymax



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Injury, Missing Scene, PJ!Falcon, PJ!Sam Wilson, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3527486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MedicBaymax/pseuds/MedicBaymax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha was shot during the fight with the Winter Soldier. Rescued by Hill, it is now up to Sam to make sure she's alive to continue their mission. Missing scene from CATWS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I don't think people give Sam Wilson enough credit for being a PJ, but I wanted to give him a little love. So here goes.

Missing scene from CA:TWS

TW: depictions of blood, injury

Also this is the first fanfiction I've published in ages, and the first thing I've done in present tense, so constructive criticism is welcome

FIELD ASSESSMENT

Natasha goes first, followed by Sam. The van's going a little over thirty-five. Asphalt for landing. Fourteen inches of clear space between the undercarriage and the road. Its not a lot of space to roll out of a fall. Factor in the stress, the width of the van, the width of the hole in the undercarriage and the gunshot wound and there's not a lot of room for error.

Still, Hill has risked a lot for this. Not to mention the certain death that awaits them if they don't somehow escape the van. So there also isn't a lot of choice.  
The plan is simple. Drop and roll sideways. At thirty-five miles an hour, the van should clear them before getting trapped under the rear tires is a possibility. At least, that's the hope.

Natasha looks at the rushing asphalt fewer than two feet below her, takes a breath, and jumps. She knows there will be pain, and blocks it out before it hits her. The full maneuver takes fewer than two seconds. Drop, impact, and roll left off the road. It happens incredibly fast. The impact is the worst part. She can feel the heat of the friction against her jacket for an instant, scoring deep into the leather. Her body is tense, though, and already in pain. If the road rash scores into her flesh as well, she doesn't feel it. Once she finds herself in a ditch on the side of the road, out of sight of the other vans, she lays still.

Sam rolls out of the landing with practiced ease. It has been a while since he's had to drill a landing, but muscle memory picks up the slack. A quick self-assessment reveals that his clothing is torn up, but the only injury is a stretch of road rash on his upper arm and thigh. Both wounds are bleeding but they're superficial. He budgeted for worse.

He waits for the other vans to pass, then gets up. He doesn't see Natasha immediately. The road stretches along a heavily forested hill, dropping off to an embankment, and then a further two or three story drop to a river below. There is a lot of undergrowth. Trees line the embankment, and the fall below it. He determines that it is unlikely Natasha fell the entire way to the river. That would leave her easier to find, but possibly in worse shape.

He stays low. By his calculation, Natasha is about fifty yards behind where he landed. He moves quickly, keeping below the line of sight afforded by the road. His injuries, though minor, look bad at first glance. Anyone else who comes along this road might be tempted to stop and help. He knows he has no excuse and their presence would complicate things immensely.

He sees her about twenty feet out. "Natasha, its Sam." He says, announcing himself. His voice is just loud enough to carry to her and not much further. No one else seems to be here, but with everything that's happened, he figures better safe than sorry.

She's lying still, and he can't tell if she's conscious or not. At ten feet he determines that she is breathing.

He kneels between her and the second drop. Breathing implies circulation. With no other assessment her most pressing injury is still the gunshot wound in her left shoulder.

"Nat, you with me?" He asks.

"Mmm-hmm." She responds quickly. She opens her eyes. They seem clear, but he can tell she's in pain. She also hasn't voluntarily moved. His hands go to his chest and what should have been packs of compression bandage, hemostatic agent and sublingual fentanyl. They're not there and he all but rolls his eyes at himself. Muscle memory again. He feels for a pulse and counts respirations.

"Tell me your name, what happened and where you are." He orders anyway. She grumbles at this, but obliges. He assumes she's been in this situation a time or two before and skips the pleasantries.

"Natasha Romanoff, Hydra are assholes and I jumped out of a moving van, the side of the road."

"Thanks."

She shrugs with her good shoulder, telling him she understands which one is injured. That's a good thing.

"I'm trained to do an assessment, I'll walk you through it as I go." He announces. "I'm also going to ask some questions. Say yes or no, don't move."

"Yes." She smiles.

"Clever." He responds, deadpan. "Are you hurting anywhere that isn't your left shoulder?" He asks. She thinks for a moment.

"Right hip but its not bad." She answers. He looks. It's road rash, her jeans are shredded in spots and she's bleeding, but its not deep. It looks painful but he's surprised she can feel it over the GSW and adrenalin. He tells her as much.

"I'm going to look at the wound in your shoulder. Might hurt a little bit, but hold on." For a second time his hands go to his chest. He still doesn't have the medical supplies, but he needs to see how bad it is anyway. The way she was drifting in the van suggests that her blood pressure has dropped significantly, either due to blood loss or shock from pain. The improvement now that she is laying flat points to the former. Good sign provided he can stop the bleeding before she slips into shock from it.

He eases her jacket open. Years in pararescue mean he's seen a lot of blood. The wound looks like it's gone all the way through. Her skin is dark red with congealing blood and her black undershirt glistens, soaked. He finds himself fighting with muscle memory now, his hands telling him to grab trauma shears, cut off the jacket and shirt, apply a pressure bandage. He overrides these commands. Though there is a lot of blood there, the bleeding has slowed and he doesn't have the supplies.

He surveys her hands quickly. Both are normally colored. If the bullet has grazed her subclavian artery she'd have already bled out, and if it'd severed it, her left hand would be starkly white or blue. Neither is the case.

He doesn't tell her she is lucky. From his experience the phrase serves no purpose and leads to a false sense of security. She's still on shaky ground and they both know it.

He feels her head for deformity, open skin, tenderness, swelling. Does the same for her throat and neck, pushes his hands underneath her and checks her spine all the way down to her hips. It takes him seconds. "Anything hurt?" he asks.

"No."

"Okay, this will." He turns her on her side away from him to survey the exit wound. He hears her hiss in pain as he pulls the jacket off her arm and upper back gently but as quickly as he can. The bleeding is worse here. The lining of her jacket is thick with it, the back of her undershirt almost entirely soaked, as well as the waist of her jeans. The bullet has travelled almost sideways, through the flesh of her inner shoulder, grazing the ball of her humerus and exiting the back of her deltoid. The wound is jagged, unlike the neater hole in the front. Blood is still oozing from it, cutting a fresh trail through the congealing blood on her back. He rips a strip from the bottom of his shirt and folds it into a thick square large enough to cover the exit wound. "Ready?" He asks.

She nods. He presses the square against the exit wound, and then rolls her back. It will put at least some pressure on it, and hopefully slow the loss of blood until he can get real supplies. Her face is white and her breathing is shallow and faster than before. He feels for a pulse again, this time as comparison. The rate is similar, but her pressure has definitely dropped. Warning bells go off in his head about insufficient cardiac output, but he keeps his face neutral.

"Nat, what's going on right now, what do I need to know?" He asks. He wants her to tell him something hurts, something he missed, something he can see to.

"Steve and Hill are here." She says instead. Even better. She's weak, but she's still with him, she's still conscious, and she's still more aware than he is about what's going on. Steve runs over first. Sam tells him to press on the entry wound. He does so without question, pushing hard on her shoulder. She gasps, but Sam is thankful this is not Steve's first rodeo. With that being taken care of, he goes on to finally finish his assessment.

"Sam, report."

"She weathered the exit with only some road rash, primary concern is blood loss from GSW in her left shoulder." He started. He should have shortened it to that, but his mind was generating an SBAR report and he didn't stop it. "She seems to be in otherwise good physical health. Assessment finds that she is A&O times 4, pulse and respers are high and shallow and pressure is presumed low due to blood loss. Recommend immediate evac to medical care." Hill looks impressed at this.

"Can do." She says, nodding. "There's an unmarked van not too far from here, I'll go and get it, bring it around. Shouldn't be too long before they realize we're gone but I want to be out of here well before that. There're medical supplies in the van." She said. "Give me ten minutes." Sam nods, thanking her silently. Now that Natasha is flat again, she seems to be doing better, but she'll need fluid replacement and probably blood to bring her pressure up and prevent shock. He doubts the van will have that, but even a compression bandage would be helpful.

Hill is back with the van quickly. Sam and Steve help Natasha to it. She seems weak, but refuses to be carried. Even so, she allows them to bare most of her weight as they climb the embankment back to the road and into Hill's van. When she sits down, she wavers for a moment. Sam catches her and begins to lower across the seats.

"I'm good." She says, trying to stop her decent.

"It's okay." Sam starts. "Let us worry about that." But she is adamant.

"I'm good." She says again, and with what looks like great effort, pushes herself back up to sitting. Her head falls back over the seat and she's putting effort into breathing more slowly and deeply. Sam nods, placing himself next to her on the seat in case she falls. Steve hands him a bandage. Its about the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"I'm going to move your arm, its going to hurt. If you feel like you're going to faint, say something, okay?" He keeps her body angled toward him. If she falls, he'll be able to catch her more easily that way. Finally with access to trauma shears, he cuts through her undershirt and presses the pad against the bloodsoaked and wadded shirt. In the front, he places an ABD pad, and then wraps the compression part of the bandage around her arm, shoulder and chest.

He notices she's shivering now. He wraps her jacket back around her, knowing that its not perfect, but better than nothing.

Once Natasha is safe, it occurs to him that he doesn't know where they're going. He asks Steve, who shrugs.

Natasha is leaning against him. Her face is taut and her eyes only vaguely open. She needs IV fluids and blood, but seems to be stable enough for now without them. He's glad. Not everyone would be. Still, he keeps her talking.

"You have any allergies?" He asks. She looks at him grumpily. He knows she's fighting sleep.

"No." She says.

"On any medications?"

"No."

"When was the last time you ate or drank anything?" She looks up from his shoulder just long enough to glare at him pointedly. He shrugs. He supposes that he knows that anyway and lets it go.

"Anything else I should know?"

"No."

He takes her vitals and they talk about other stuff then. Or rather he does. Steve seems to be pretty deep in thought and doesn't join in. Natasha really only joins in reluctantly, when he prompts her to, to make sure she's still conscious. He talks about Riley, a couple of missions they ran together one time. Then that kind of conversation doesn't seem so pertinent.

They drive for about an hour. When the van finally crunches to a stop, Steve is the first one up, putting his body protectively between Sam and Natasha and the door. He doesn't need to. Hill is standing there. Steve helps Natasha down and Hill leads them all into the bunker.

There, Sam watches as Natasha receives care. Fluids and blood and x-rays and painkillers and strong antibiotics. A doctor injects local anesthetic and cauterizes the vessels that are still bleeding. He determines that the damage isn't bad, and stitches the wound. On top of that goes skin glue and steri-strips. The procedure is rough and dirty and from the look on Natasha's face she's been under medicated for it.

Sam is disappointed and frankly angry about it until he realizes one thing. The treatment isn't so she can spend the rest of the week in bed recovering. Its so she can get back out in the field. Its not until then that he starts to see it. Injuries be damned, they have a lot of work left to do before the day is over.


	2. Chapter 2

Once he’s pretty sure Natasha is in decent hands, he wonders what he should do about his own wounds. They’re only score marks from where his skin hit the asphalt- ripped up and bloody, but barely deeper than the minimal fat layer on his left arm and thigh. The blood has long since soaked into the shredded fabric of his shirt and pants, congealed, and partially dried. It looks bad and it hurts, will probably scar like crazy, but he’s certainly had worse and he decides its definitely something he can handle himself given the rest of the situation.  


Sam pulls a few supplies from the supply shelves- a first aid kit, a few bottles of saline and a couple towels- and excuses himself to the bathroom. Antibiotics and painkillers are stored somewhere else but he figures he can ask for them later if he still needs them. Steve catches a glimpse of his injuries as he turns to go and raises an eyebrow. Sam shakes his head curtly. He’s got it. No help needed. He’s glad when Steve nods back, albeit looking a little unconvinced. Everyone else is caught up talking about the plan or tending to Natasha and doesn’t see. That’s okay. From what he’s seen so far, this group of people would drop everything to help him if they saw him, and right now they need to focus on the plan.  


The restroom is down a short hall from the infirmary. While part of the facility has been cleaned up and sealed, the worker’s restroom seems to still be on the to-do list. There’s a commercial dehumidifier chugging away in the corner but the room is still clammy and smells like stale disinfectant and algae. Two bare fluorescent tubes buzz over the mirror and Sam sees his reflection and quickly looks away. In the stark light he doesn’t look particularly well. Maybe Steve was right to look worried. He takes a second to think about the ridiculousness of that thought. Captain America worried about him while the world was at stake. If it’s true it makes him feel a little guilty. It turns out Steve is a lot more down to earth than Sam ever could have guessed, but the man has a lot bigger fish to fry than a minor injury. Sam shakes his head, pushing the idea away. Maybe he should just focus on patching himself up and getting back out there before anyone comes looking for him.  


The adrenalin is gone and he’s feeling the pain now. It crosses his mind that he maybe should have just sucked it up and waited until the doctor was finished tending to Natasha. Then he could have had a warmer environment in which to work, and maybe someone to help.  


He’s already here, though, and the bathroom is clean at least. He tests a faucet. The water that comes out is clean and cold. Miles better than tending a similar injury in a bombed-out building without water or supplies- something he’s done before without even blinking.  
He opens the first aid kit. There’s a packet of generic acetaminophen and he swallows the prepackaged pills with tap water. Then he sets about arranging what else he needs on a small shelf over the sink- bandages, a pair of tweezers, packets of antibiotic cream. He makes a small hole in the top of a saline bottle with a sterile needle and puts the bottle on the shelf too.  


Then he takes his first really good look at the wound in the mirror. He figures he’ll start with his shoulder, which will be the more difficult spot to tend to. The outer portion of his sleeve is shredded and saturated in tacky-dry blood. The fabric sticks to the wound. Some of it has been pushed deeper into the score marks by the asphalt. Fine gravel from the road has suffered the same fate. Sam doesn’t bother grimacing. Even with the gravel, he’s seen a lot worse.  


He leans over the sink and squeezes a stream of saline onto the fabric. Thank goodness his muscle memory had the decency to land him on his non-dominant side. He waits a couple seconds as the saline does the work of loosening the blood. The excess drips off his arm, pink-brown drops on the white porcelain of the sink. He feels his stomach turn at the sight. That worries him a little because he’s seen a lot of blood before, and a lot of his own blood at that. This should be nothing.  


Sam pushes the feeling away and painstakingly picks the fabric out of the wound with the tweezers. The little bits that are still dry he wets with the saline until they come free. Once everything is sodden and out of the wound, he cuts the rest of the sleeve off completely with some trauma shears from the kit. He uses about half the rest of the saline trying to flush the gravel out. The problem is that some of the scores were deeper than he expected. There are still a few buried pieces of gravel in the wound that even his macgyvered squeeze-bottle can’t wash out.  


“You wanted a little more work, huh?” He asks derisively of the tweezers, currently lying bloodstained on a packaged bandage. It’s definitely their fault he now needs to use them to dig in his already abused flesh. He takes a few deep breaths, staring at the reflection of the wound in the mirror. Waiting doesn’t help- he knows that- but the few seconds’ procrastination feels like a gift.  


Time to get on with things, he thinks. He picks up the tweezers, deciding to go for the top most piece of gravel and work his way down. There aren’t many left, but they’re the deeper ones- ones that will cause the most problems if he leaves them. He breathes in. The first one isn’t so bad- less than a second from insertion to extraction. He forces the breath out aggressively and then drops the tiny piece of gravel onto the edge of the sink. Self-first aid, especially the painful stuff, is less about suspending the feeling of pain and more about suspending the need to feel comfortable. Like everything, it was okay if you changed your standards of what “okay” meant.  


Then for the next one. His hand starts shaking as the tweezers go in. Sam begs it to stay steady. The feeling of the cold metal against the raw flesh is weirdly heightened and he feels like he might puke. He stares himself down in the mirror, showing how straight he’s keeping his face. You’re not actually hurting, he tells himself. It’s a skinned knee compared to what Natasha just went through. Buck up. It’s a struggle, but he finally extracts the second granule and drops it on the side of the sink. He stumbles back a step before catching himself, gasping as he realizes he’s been holding his breath.  
Later, Sam would recognize this as the time when he should have given up and gone for help and maybe local anesthesia. In the moment, he figures he’s halfway done and might as well just finish up himself.  


The third piece of gravel goes just as badly. When its finally out his face is paler than before and his hands feel like they’re freezing. His jaw is tight where he’s clenched it. He forces the last breath out. He’s not policing his breathing very well and its taking its toll. He gives himself enough time to recover slightly, but not enough that he considers abandoning his efforts. One last granule here. He can do it.  


This is the biggest of them, and is almost fully enclosed by dried blood and scored subcutaneous fat. His hand is shaking from the get-go and as the blood-streaked tips of the tweezers enter, dark spots cloud the center of his vision. Bile rises in his throat. He too hasn’t eaten since breakfast, which is good because he feels like anything he would have eaten would have been in the sink by now.  


The skin on his face and chest feels hot. The nausea, the changes in his vision and the heat all signal he’ll pass out pretty soon if he doesn’t stop torturing himself. He forces himself to sit on the damp concrete across from the mirror, but without the close up reflection he can barely see the granule. At this point, though, he doesn’t trust himself to stand. Getting a concussion on top of everything wouldn’t be a good day.  
With everything he has, he pulls the last piece of gravel from the wound.  


He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Blood trickles freely down his arm and hand and he looks in pretty rough shape. The pain doesn’t fade, but even though he knows he should flush and cover the wound quickly, he doesn’t trust himself to get up to get the saline and bandages yet. Better to take the time and not risk further injury he thinks. He’s already gotten himself this deep into trouble, and if he could get himself in, he damn well has the responsibility to mitigate further damage and get himself out.  


He lets his eyes close and leans into his uninjured side. He doesn’t want to pass out, but if he does, it will be in a safe way and on his own terms. As it turns out, he never fully loses consciousness, just feels sick as his heart pounds uncomfortably fast in his ears. With his eyes closed there’s nothing to focus on but the pain, the blood trickling down his arm, nausea, and his own breathing. He chooses the fourth option and tries to will himself back in control.  


Tactical breathing. Four counts in, hold four counts, drive the breath out in a forceful sigh for four counts as well. Repeat as needed. Gradually, his heart rate comes back under control. The breathing gives him something else to think about and he feels almost okay by the time Steve Rogers enters.  


Sam’s eyes snap open as the door swings into the small space. He’s almost behind the door and has to scoot a few inches over to avoid getting hit by it. The tweezers clink to the ground. He’s annoyed, but whether it is with himself or Steve barging in he’s not fully sure. Steve’s eyes land on Sam and widen. Sam figures the blood looks a lot worse than it is and prepares a half-assed explanation of why the Avenger shouldn’t worry about it. None of which ever actually makes it out of his mouth.  


Sam frowns. He hasn’t been hiding the injury to hide the injury. That would be a stupid and a waste of time and energy. He’s been doing it to make sure energy is directed to where it needs to be- planning their attack on project insight. Perfectly reasonable, given the circumstances, he thinks again to himself, albeit a little more halfheartedly than before. He needs to get himself cleaned up so he can continue to fight, just like the doctor in the other room is doing for Natasha. The rest of them should know about it after the fact, but don’t need to care immediately unless it impacts his performance in the field, which in all likelihood this won’t. “You ever hear it’s rude to barge in on a guy whose insides are showing?” Sam asks. Its lame and the question would be out of line if he’d said it to his former commander, but he figures Steve might give him a break. After all, this isn’t exactly a sanctioned mission, and while he’ll gladly respect and follow any order Steve gives him, all other decorum was forfeit the moment the powers that be started shooting at him.  


“What happened, Sam?” Steve says urgently, ignoring Sam’s quip. “Are you alright?” He interprets Steve’s question as a demand to know why Sam wasn’t more open about the injury.  


“Some road rash from when I jumped out of the van. It’s pretty minor, I’ve got it under control.” He explains, while his teeth are no longer clenched, his jaw is still tight and he’s not sure how convincing the line was, but it’s the truth. Steve looks unconvinced. “It’s the truth.” He affirms more casually, forcing himself to relax more outwardly. “I swear I’m not just trying to show off.” There’s a tense second of silence. “I mean, you’re a 10, Cap, don’t get me wrong.” He acquiesces, trying to break some of the tension. “But I don’t risk my life to impress anyone. Not worth it.” This again crosses serious lines, especially since he’s known Steve all of a week, but he’s trying to lighten the mood if he can. Unfortunately, the second he’s finished talking, Steve’s face falls.  


“I’m sorry for dragging you into this, Sam. It was wrong of me to ask you to get mixed up with some very dangerous people. I-”  


“Seriously, man, don’t sweat it.” Sam says genuinely.  


“Sam-“  


“You remember what I said about orders, right?” Steve nods almost imperceptibly. Sam has a feeling the apology isn’t entirely about the situation at hand, or even entirely about Sam at all, but he’ll try to put Steve’s mind at ease about what he can. “If I didn’t want to get back in the action, you and Nat wouldn’t have gotten through my door. Simple as that. I know what I’m about.” Steve smiles a little there.  


“You’re hurt, you need a doctor.” Steve finally says, changing the subject. In the brief interlude, the pain in Sam’s arm has died to a background buzzing. He doesn’t want to move but he certainly can if need be. All his faculties are still intact and he has full range of motion and sensation. A doctor would still be highly unnecessary. There’s absolutely no reason Sam can’t bandage his own wounds without one.  


‘’No, wait.” Sam says. He expects Steve to ignore him and go for help anyway. Its probably what Sam would do if their roles were reversed. He’s surprised when Steve stops and turns back, a concerned look on his face. “Listen, man” Sam starts, knowing he now has to give some kind of explanation. “I know it looks bad, but its not a whole lot more dangerous than a skinned knee. Ten more minutes, tops and I’ll be back out there.” Part of it is that he doesn’t want to look like he can’t judge his own abilities. It’s somewhat true, he’ll admit, though in this particular instance, if he can’t deal with a superficial injury in only slightly less than ideal circumstances, the Air Force completely wasted their money on him.  


Steve glances out of the door, surveying the hallway for a couple of seconds. Sam realizes his plea was pretty weak and scrambles to his knees, trying to get his head around how he’s going to explain the amount of blood on the floor when Steve goes for the doctor. But then Steve treads quickly back into the restroom and closes the door behind him. He forces a doorstop under it so it can’t be easily opened from the outside.  


“That’ll hold until Natasha decides we’re taking too long.” Steve reports. “Just tell me what to do.”  


“Get the first aid kit, a towel and the bottle of saline.” Sam says, immensely grateful Steve is willing to help out. He has no idea how long it will be before Natasha gets bored of waiting for Steve to pee or assumes a toilet assassin has captured them and comes to investigate. Steve gets them and Sam flushes the wound again. Its tough at the angle without the mirror to help. Drops ranging from pink to brown to deep red fall on the white towel and soak together into a large red patch under his elbow. He continues until the bottle runs dry and he’s satisfied that the wound is reasonably clear of any remaining debris. Antibiotics will have to take care of the rest. Steve watches quietly.  


Sam picks out a few gauze pads and a roll of self-adhering elastic. Its meant to keep pressure on phlebotomy sticks, but it will hold gauze pads in place a lot better than kerlex or roller gauze. If he’s going to be fighting, he’ll need something sturdy. “Go ahead and put the gloves in the kit on.” Sam says as he unwraps the pads and smears antibiotic gel on the wound. It’s a little deeper than the gel is designed for, but he needs to keep the wound bed damp or the gauze will stick and things will be a lot less comfortable. Next to him Steve struggles slightly with vinyl gloves that are probably two sizes too small for him. Steve nods when the gloves are on his hands.  


“Done.” He says seriously. The wrists of the gloves are both torn but they’re definitely on his hands.  


“Great, I need you to hold these over the wound while I wrap it.” Steve looks uncertain. Sam holds up the pads exactly where Steve needs to keep them in place. Steve takes the gingerly. “Hold them there like you mean it.” Sam ribs. Then adds: “I’ll tell you if you’re hurting me.” He assures Steve. It doesn’t even hurt much, but Sam tastes bile again as Steve presses the pad harder against the wound. He breathes through it, knowing Steve will loosen his grip if he senses Sam is in pain. He winds the elastic around his arm as tightly as he can safely manage and tapes it in place. He stares at the ground a few feet away trying not to think that his leg will be just as bad.  


“You okay?” Steve asks a few seconds later.  


“You know…” Sam trails off before catching himself. “Not my best day, not my worst, won’t be my last.” He shrugs and lets his eyes make their way to his leg. It looks worse than his arm but that could just be the bleeding and the thicker fabric of his pants. His plan is the same. Dampen the fabric and remove it, flush out everything he can with the other bottle of saline, pick out everything else, and wrap it up. He asks for the other saline bottle and Steve brings it over.  
Sam pokes the same hole in the top of the bottle and drenches the area. He can use both arms now, which helps immensely. Even though he tied the gauze as tightly as he can, it still rubs a little on his wound and it feels like sandpaper on skin that’s soaked a little too long in the shower. Still, this is as much about patching himself up as it is proving to Steve that he really is fine and can continue to fight. Its not excruciating, so he’s totally fine.  
Sam waits a solid minute for the saline to soak into the fabric. During that time he resterilizes the tweezers with an alcohol pad. Not that they were particularly sterile before, he thinks, but at least now he’ll probably not die of whatever bugs happen to live on the bathroom floor. He tries to breathe evenly. Steve stays quiet while he works, for which Sam is grateful. The level of adrenalin in his body is making it difficult to think, but he’s operated at this level of adrenalin for years on end, so it’s not exactly the end of the world.  


He cuts the blood-soaked leg of his pants off. It gives him easier access to the wound and the clothes were ruined anyway from the blood, but now he’s seriously wondering if he’s going to have to wear his underwear into battle against Hydra. Even through the pain, the thought all but cracks him up. The base didn’t look all that residential from what he’d seen coming in and he wonders whether he’ll even be able to borrow a pair of jeans.  


With a better angle, it’s a little easier to flush the wound with the saline instead of pick the gravel out by hand. Its not particularly pleasant, but better than sticking metal into his thigh. By the time the bottle is dry, there is only one piece of stubborn gravel left. He holds the tweezers over it, taking a second to think of anything but how they’re going to feel burrowing into his flesh to retrieve the small stone. Steve notices his pause.  


“You okay?” He asks. Sam knows the extra anxiety he’s pushing through is a survival mechanism. His body is registering what he’s doing as an attack, and trying to convince him not to do it again. That’s okay, he tells himself. He only has to do it one more time. He can push through anything once.  


“I’m good.” He says, pretending he doesn’t see the return of the dark spots in his vision. He can push through for one tiny piece of gravel.  


His hand seizes just for a second as the tweezers grip the last piece of gravel. It twists in its groove, and Sam comes the closest yet to passing out today. He doesn’t want to moan or cry out- things that have been trained out of him for the sake of stealth- but he feels the muscles in his face and hands so taut they’ve started cramping and he’s been trying so hard not to gasp that he’s holding his breath. He settles on a low growl as he presses his back against the cold concrete wall behind him. He feels hot again, and wills the feeling to pass. He allows himself only a moment to react to the physical revulsion of digging in his own wound. He needs to keep up the momentum or he’ll never get off this floor.  


The piece of gravel is in a more accessible place now, though, and Sam removes it easily. Then he rubs the antibiotic gel in and covers the area with gauze pads, wrapping the entire setup in self-adhering elastic.  


“Done.” Sam gasps finally. He slaps the tape down on the floor of the bathroom. The sound it makes isn’t wholly satisfying, so he picks up the metal tweezers and does the same to them. The clang they make as the hit the concrete makes him feel better in some absurd way. The adrenalin wanes and he’s utterly exhausted. Sweat pours down his face and he still doesn’t know if he’s going to make it out of the bathroom without passing out or throwing up. He’s almost laughing with relief, though. The wounds are closed and dressed and he doesn’t have to mess with the injuries until the bandages need changed.  


He sits still on the floor, leaning back against the wall and feeling his butt going numb as the pain from both wounds fades to a distant kind of buzzing.  


Steve cleans things up. There is a patch of blood on the floor, but other than that, no one will ever be able to tell Sam has just performed minor surgery.  


The thought again occurs to him that his clothes are trashed. He’s about to ask Steve if there’s anyone he can borrow a pair of jeans from, when the doorstop skitters across the floor and Natasha walks in without knocking. She has a duffle bag over her good shoulder and she holds her injured arm close to her chest. She wears a dark grey SHIELD t-shirt that’s a couple of sizes too big. The waist is tied in a knot at her side.  


She surveys the room, her eyes landing on the bloodstain and Sam’s bandaged injuries. She looks him up and down. “You’re lucky Steve has low standards.” She says. Sam struggles to his feet, leaning slightly against the wall for support until he’s sure he’s steady. “Huh?” He asks, looking at Steve for guidance. He figures he doesn’t quite have the hang of Natasha’s humor yet, but Steve looks just as confused as he feels.  


“If you left that much blood on the floor after one of my missions, I’d fire you on the spot.” She smiles slyly and hands Sam the duffle bag. “There’re some extra clothes in there that look about your size.” She shrugs. “Guess I’ll cut you some slack today because you saved my life and we’re short a few guys. Welcome to the team, Flyboy.”  


She smiles again before leaving him to change clothes.  


Sam’s tired and feels pretty lousy. He figures everyone does, especially given the fact that he’s pretty sure Steve and Nat barely slept the night before. The duffle contains a SHIELD t-shirt identical to the one Natasha was wearing, grey camo BDUs and a pair of standard-issue combat boots. He takes the pants and shirt- the jacket never fit well with the Falcon wings- and dons them quickly along with the boots.  


Not a half hour later, everyone sits around the table. He’s not sure he loves how fast everyone moves here, how fast everyone is expected to recover. That being said, he knows he can keep up and won’t need a lot of extra training. He’s serious about the mission they’re about to run. He’s a little out of practice, but the briefing seems to sit well with him. Its good to be on a team again.


End file.
